


Bird With a Broken Wing

by acaelousqueadcentrum



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:31:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaelousqueadcentrum/pseuds/acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You make the strangest friends in war zones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bird With a Broken Wing

“It’s okay, Lieutenant, it’s going to be okay.”

Raven carefully, carefully, dug her knife into the dry sand around the officer’s boot, exposing the mine– primed and ready to explode as soon as the pressure plate registered the slightest shift of weight.

It was bad. It was really bad.

The mine was old and unstable, and the fact that it hadn’t blown the moment the officer stepped on it was a miracle, to say the least. That this Griff had realized her peril, and kept her head enough to shout at the grunts to clear the area, to call for EOD? Woman must’ve had some serious fucking angels looking over her shoulder.

Balls of fucking steel, at the very least.

“Well, Griff–that’s what your second calls you, right? You picked a damn good day to call in a tech. Not only was I next up on the list, but if we’re lucky we’ll be back behind the wire by chow, and it’s enchiladas tonight, according to the private I ran into on the way out.”

The blonde takes in a careful, shuddering breath.

The trick, Raven had learned early on in her career, was a careful balance of truth and lies. A little hope goes a long way.

And Raven _is_ the best there is.

And it _is_ enchilada night.

“Well, then,” the lieutenant says, and Raven can hear the familiar mix of determination and resignation in her voice, “we better get started. My stomach’s already growling.”

If Raven could have touched her, offered her a hand in reassurance then, in awe of her stoic bravery … but it’s too risky. Too dangerous. If they’re going to make it out of this desert, they’re going to have to walk a delicate line of luck and skill. And Raven doesn’t want to risk calling on the former before she has to.

“You got it, Griff. Just stay still, as still as you can, and do everything I tell you. We’re gonna be just fine.”

Sometimes, Raven knows, you’ve just gotta lie and hope.

—–

Sweat pools at the small of her back under her heavy suit, in the shallow divots at the back of her knees, but Raven ignores it. It’s taken hours, but she’s cleared away as much of the sand as she can risk, enough to see what she needs.

Enough to see that her original assessment–that they were fucked–was a bit of a lowball.

They were royally fucked.

Honestly, Raven has no idea how either of them are still alive. This thing should have blown years ago, just from the pressure of the shifting sands, the rumble of trucks along the nearby road.

But it hasn’t. It’s survived.

Raven doesn’t bother hoping it will extend them the same courtesy.

She shifts–carefully–onto her knees and regards the woman above her, the beaded sweat, the pale skin. She won’t last much longer, this Griff. It’s been hours, and her face is lined with the strain of standing, so perfectly still, the stress of knowing that today her ticket got punched.

And Raven’s choice–there’s always, always a choice–is made.

She presses the switch on her radio, the private channel, and updates her team, gives the command, the code they use to signal that shit’s about to get fucked up without alerting her companion.

She doesn’t bother to listen to their concern, their plea to try another way, just waits and watches. Until she sees them moving, pulling back even further, the medics at the ready with their stretchers and their bags.

She flexes the muscles in her legs, her feet, forces them into bated wakefulness. They only get one chance at this, after all.

What a fucking metaphor. But it’s this that Raven loves the most about her job. There are no second chances. Just a steady, uncompromising line between success and failure.

She can feel the surge of adrenaline as it hits her bloodstream. As her body prepares to do what she’s going to ask of it. As time slows down to seconds, this peaceful place between life and death, caught in Schrodinger’s grasp.

“So, Griff, you got a name?” And the casual tone of her voice isn’t a ploy, isn’t feigned. There’s no need for artifice now, not here, not in the eye.

“Clarke, Clarke,” the lieutenant offers roughly, throat dry, sand on her tongue. “You?”

“Raven,” she answers, “Raven Reyes, at your service.”

Griff–Clarke–lets out something that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a sob.

And Raven knows–they’ve reached the end.

“Listen, Clarke,“she says slowly, carefully, firmly, watching the woman’s red-rimmed eyes, the wet blue of her irises, “you got someone? Someone you love?”

Clarke nods, and Raven can see how just the thought of them has given her a final gift of strength.

“Good,” she continues, shifting into position, a runner at the block, “close your eyes and picture them. Think of them–”

“Her,” Clarke interrupts, eyes closed, and smiling. In this moment, dirty and tear-stained and facing down Death itself–

In this moment, thinking of love–

She’s beautiful.

She’s beautiful, and Raven is going to get her home. Back to the woman who puts that smile on her face, that gentle look of love.

“Her,” Raven corrects herself, “think of her in bed. A sunny morning, sheets fallen down to her waist, the way she looks at you, how beautiful she is, how much she loves you and everything you feel for her–”

She takes a breath.

She tenses her muscles.

She flies.

**Author's Note:**

> _And on my own I walk alone_   
>  _To see the sun again I'd give anything_   
>  _But life demands a final chapter_   
>  _A story that we all must leave behind_   
>  _It's do or die, and this is mine_   
>  _The anthem of a bird with a broken wing_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> In theory, this is a beginning.


End file.
